


light brought in buckets

by soldierly



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:58:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldierly/pseuds/soldierly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony and Steve adopt a young Peter, and Tony handles being a father with all the grace that can be expected of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	light brought in buckets

So it turns out that having a kid is a lot harder than Tony expected.

He's not naive, or anything. He knew it would be work, and to be honest, he had been wary at first, but Steve had had that _look_ , and Tony had caught him poring over adoption brochures and websites for weeks before Steve even brought it up. There was never a chance that Tony could say no, especially with the world (mostly) settled and the two of them finally able to be... well, _domestic_ is probably the word for it, even though Tony's gut reaction is to shrivel up in a ball and hiss very unbecomingly when reporters chime that _the wild Tony Stark's finally been tamed, huh?_

But really, Tony isn't that different. Which is kind of the issue.

Steve's cut from parental cloth, took to it like a fish to water right from the first minute, and Tony's -- well, Tony's _not_. He knows what it's like to have a shitty childhood, so he does his best to be everything his father wasn't: he talks to Peter like an adult, pays attention to him, looks up and away from his work when Peter says his name. Peter has spunk; he's a klutz and a little bit of a dork at all of ten years old, which is so awkwardly endearing to Tony that it takes him a long time to realize that Peter reminds him of himself at that age (minus the circuit board-building; Peter has shown a real proclivity for physics, though). He isn't afraid to challenge them -- that worries Steve, but it makes something in the bottom of Tony's stomach light low and pleased. He's curious, inquisitive -- asks questions that Tony has entire _essays'_ worth of answers to, until Steve reminds him that yes, Peter's sharp, but he's still not out of fifth grade.

So, yeah. They have a kid. Tony drives him to school and helps him with his homework and hides in his workshop when they have four classmates in for a sleepover. Steve cooks (he tried to teach Tony, but that ended with Jarvis dousing the entire kitchen in flame-retardant goo), reminds Peter that polka dots and stripes don't go well together, and rakes leaves for him to jump into. They balance one another, sort of -- Tony's always a little bit of a basket case, torn between obsessively giving Peter every iota of his focus and worrying that he's doing it all wrong, that he'll screw up so monumentally he won't be able to patch things.

Steve always reassures him, when he gets like that -- and he needs Steve when he does, because he's quit the booze. There was one bad night, a couple months after they got Peter, and Steve had been ashen-faced and white-knuckled at the sight of Tony, bottles scattered around him. God, he'd been so drunk that he can't even remember that day, much less what happened that night. Steve has told him, a couple times, said that _you were telling me that you couldn't do it -- raise Peter, I mean_. Tony went silent, the first time, which had been confession enough, and Steve touched his jaw, said, _I know you can_.

And, well. That kind of makes all the difference, sometimes, knowing that Steve's backing him. Tony still has to contend with his own childish urges, his inability to reconcile with the fact that he is in two relationships that absolutely require that he _not_ flip out and fall off the face of the earth to bury himself in his workshop for a week while he sorts his head out. He isn't perfect; he's not _changed_ , fundamentally. But there's something... shifted. Maybe he hasn't gone up or down, but he's shuffled sideways, slotted into something different.

It's good.

:::

"Hey, Dad?"

Tony glances up from the schematics he's pulled onto the side table, blearily focuses on the clock over the TV. It's almost three in the morning, but Tony's not going to bitch at Peter for being up when he's been caught red-handed. "Huh?"

"Dad told me to make sure you got sleep," Peter says, crossing his arms over his skinny chest. He's recently twelve now, and it's gone from _Dad and Tony_ to just _Dad_ for the both of them; Tony's not sure when or why the change came about, but it damn near makes his heart fall into his stomach every time Peter says it.

"Did he," he says archly, pushing his glasses up into his hair. How Steve-like.

Peter clambers over the arm of the couch and sits cross-legged, facing Tony. "What're you working on?"

"Something that goes boom," Tony responds, wiggling his fingers. Peter pushes his shoulder, his own glasses glinting in the light from the gas fireplace. God, for all he isn't biologically theirs, he's got enough of their traits: Tony's love of maths, Steve's sweetness, Tony's utter lack of patience for authority, Steve's ability to pull things at random from the pantry and make awesome food out of them. Tony ruffles his hair, laughs at him when it sticks up in unruly tufts. Peter scowls and mashes it down with one hand.

"Hey," Peter says after a comfortable silence, long enough that Tony's fingers have started absently sketching over the blueprint again. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"No, you can't take the Prowler for a spin."

"Dad, that was _one time_ \-- "

"Your father is never going to let you drive again."

Peter rolls his eyes. "I can get a license when I'm sixteen!"

"Yeah, bucko, good luck convincing him. Try when you're thirty."

"Un _fair_ ," Peter sighs, then goes quiet in the way that Tony's learned means he's thinking about what he's going to say. "I, um," he eventually says. "I couldn't sleep on Tuesday."

Tony scrolls back. Tuesday, Tuesday, Tue -- oh. Kitchen Breakdown #45982324eleventy-six. "Peter -- "

"And I talked to Dad," Peter rushes to finish. "And he said that, that your dad wasn't there a lot when you were little."

"Yeah," Tony says. "Yeah, no, he wasn't."

Peter's eyebrows furrow. "Do you think I came out wrong?"

"What?" Tony's head jerks up, because _what_. "What do you mean?"

"Dad said you're worried that I'll come out wrong." Peter frowns, tilts his head. "Did I?"

Tony stares at him, his heart thudding hard in his chest. If Steve was here, he'd either give Tony a _ball's in your court_ look or gently distract Peter, but Steve isn't here and Peter's watching him, waiting, and Christ, hasn't Tony grown up enough by now to handle this?

"No," he says, a little sharper than he means to. "No, you -- I wasn't worried about you, I was worried about me. About -- screwing up, I guess."

"I don't get it," Peter mumbles, fingers twisting in his lap.

Tony takes his glasses off, rubs at his eyes, restless and uncomfortable. But Peter needs to hear this from him; that much he knows. It won't matter what Steve tells him, because Steve has always been the softer one, and Tony has always been the truth, bold and cold as it may be. "My dad wasn't -- here, yeah, but he didn't really pay attention to me when I was a kid. I was on my own, you know?"

"Didn't you have Dad?"

"Not until I was older," Tony clarifies, and a smile touches at his mouth without his permission. He shrugs. "Until I met Steve, I was -- not very good. I didn't do good things."

Peter gnaws on his bottom lip. "But I'm a good thing?"

Tony pushes at Peter's shoulder, just enough to topple him backwards into the couch. "Occasionally. Steal one of my cars again and I might revise." He grins; Peter's shoulders slump, relief trickling over his face. "Speaking of your dad, you should be in bed."

"You too," Peter chastises, tumbling off the couch in a gawky heap. He picks himself up, straightening his glasses. "I'll tell if you don't."

"Didn't you get over 'telling' a few years ago?" Tony retorts.

"You haven't. And you're _old_."

Tony sticks his tongue out, indulging himself. Peter laughs, heading for the doorway. Tony flicks the files he was working on away, makes sure they're saved to his server. "Dad?" Peter calls, and Tony responds, "I'm coming, I'm coming."

"No." Peter's paused in the doorway, peering in.

"No?"

"No, I mean." Peter huffs a breath, smiling that crooked, awkward thing of his. "I think you did good. Um, with me." He shrugs. "You shouldn't worry so much. You do everything right."

Tony's chest squeezes a little, pulling tighter when Peter grins wider, waves, and vanishes from sight, his familiar footsteps thudding up the stairs.

His phone chimes, interrupting his litany of _oh god, emotions_. It's Steve (of course it is): _You'd better be sleeping._

 _I love you_ , Tony texts back.

 _… What did you blow up?_

 _Peter told me about your talk._

 _Oh?_

 _He said I've done everything right by him_.

There's nothing back for a good span of five minutes, and then Steve's ringtone. Tony clicks "talk," says, "Hey."

Steve's voice is soft, throaty. " _I told you_."

Tony coughs, makes sure his voice is steady. "Yeah, yeah, rub it in."

" _I will, thank you_."

"You're insufferable."

" _You're the expert_."

"Ha ha ha, you're hilarious." Tony shuffles his schematics away, kicks his feet up on the coffee table. "… So what're you wearing?"


End file.
